


scribbles and scrawls

by oxalis_petals



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autobiographical, F/F, Feminist Themes, Gen, LGBTQ Themes, Nature, Poetry, References to Depression, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxalis_petals/pseuds/oxalis_petals
Summary: scribbles with a dead leaf in the soft mud.{poetry and reflections. themes of nature, queerness, depression, and self-love.}





	1. so much more than i deserve

it is amazing what a gentle touch can do when all you have ever known is a sharp strike to the face.

when i am with Her, i feel like a child or an animal, reduced to basic thoughts and needs. warmth. softness. fingertips tracing lines on my back. shivers of pleasure. drooping eyelids. comfort.

she smells like vanilla and bergamot— sweet perfume and earl grey tea. we fit together so well somehow, limbs crossing limbs, bodies enveloping one another. it's strange how comfortable it can be, despite elbows and chins and odd angles. i never knew what home felt like until she held me in her arms.

my life is still filled with troubles. the nightmares still come. the worries still overtake me. but for now, right now, this is enough.

for now, "i love you" is enough. soft skin, and freckles, and sleepy eyes are enough.

this is enough to stick around for.


	2. to plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow

in the midst of my depression, i found gardening.

in the winter of my life, the coldest, most brutal, most lifeless season i'd ever weathered, tiny potted life brought me my own little square of peace. something about caring for these small, growing things that kept me silent company healed a portion of my heart. plants taught me how to be soft when the world around me had only ever taught harshness and cruelty. when i came home and sat with them, plucking away dead leaves and lovingly inspecting new ones, i felt gentle in a way that i had never known. i had developed a hard shell against others; to protect myself, i had become cold, angry, and impenetrable. i had built myself an ice castle, and i was going to die there. i was going to freeze to death.

but in the same way that spring finally, finally manages to melt away the winter, gardening melted my heart and showed me the person i wanted to be, and that i was indeed capable of being that person.

the ice queen returns on occasion. usually when the world is coldest and i am afraid. but one thing that plants taught me is resilience. no matter what, spring always, _always_ comes again.


	3. rest

i have a soft heart and a weary soul; let me lie down in the grasses of you, breathe in the flowers of the meadow scented like your perfume. cover me in your warmth like sunshine and sprinkle me in your laughter like a cool mist. breathe your life into me, goddess of relief and love; let me rest with you. sing to me.


	4. seasonal depression

when spring returned and brought everything back to life, "everything" included her.

despite her love for warm tea and coffee and thick, soft sweaters and socks, a part of her died each year when the bitter cold came rushing in, riding on the wind, snatching the breath out of her lungs and then settling down for a long, deep nap. they called it "seasonal depression." but what she felt seemed so much deeper than a name.

when the sun was blotted out from the sky, the clouds scratching it out like a mistake from a typewriter, she felt a part of herself disappear with it— the best part of her. the part that was light, and free, and believed she could do anything and that life was beauty and passion and the scent of warm, chlorine-soaked skin drying in the sun to a summer song about self-love.

when the sky was bleak and gray and the air below freezing, too cold to sit outside on the balcony and eat meals, or to settle down on a blanket in the ravine and read a book, she could do nothing but tenderly care to the plants that overtook her tiny living space. flowing off of the kitchen table, the windowsills, out of her bath tub and into stands in the floor, hanging from the ceiling and the walls, some supported by blinding pink grow-lights and others just left to strain towards the cool, dimming sunlight that trickled through the open blinds. they were bright green life in the midst of a gray, dead season. but despite her efforts, they would suffer, just like her, straining for light and losing some of their luster. she pitied them, without fully realizing she was them.

so she tended to her plants with all the love and gentleness of someone who named them, cheered for them, and patted their little green bodies, and she wrapped herself in the softness of sweaters and earl gray tea, and she waited. waited for spring.

when spring began to finally float in, first in little whispers, like a rare sunny day or the budding daffodils in the ravine, she felt herself begin to awaken. she came out of a hibernation of sorts and shed old leaves, crisp and dead, and shimmied up through the ground with soft, new growth. she became brighter, a glimmer of what was to come, and she sipped her coffee on the balcony, wrapped in her soft black robe, and stayed until she became too chilled. it was not yet warm, but the sun was there, promising the coming months.

when the flowers that engulfed the ravine and dotted the sides of the roads finally burst into bloom, buttercups and lilies and irises, she found new life. her steps were lighter. her breathing easier. even the fabrics of her chosen outfits shifted— from worn black leather and tightly knit, deep olive sweaters to protect her, fragile, from the harsh hopelessness of winter, to chiffon, linen, and soft, familiar cotton, gauzy and graceful and most of all, free.

her plants brushed off the dust and gloom of a long winter, and so did she. together they stretched and sighed, and looked towards the sun.

when summer finally came barreling in, hot and humid, she couldn't complain too much. true, it frizzed her hair and made sweat glisten on her round cheeks, shoving away any makeup she had applied that morning in vain, but she couldn't deny the vibrancy, the life. the plants were thriving, throwing out new growth in tendrils of vines and leaves or offsets of new plants identical to their parents, some blooming and some doubling in size. she felt this, like she felt the warm sun brown her skin and golden the tips of her hair. she would see her friends and blast her music, she would stay up late without the threat of an early morning tomorrow. she would laugh and become stronger and braver, and she would return to her life with newfound courage and zeal.

despite the hardships of winter, she would always come back strong; though once withered, she would now be a force to be reckoned with, warm and unapologetic and yes, free.

when the world came back to life, so did she. and what a world to come back to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was self indulgent, but it felt nice to write about it and get it out of my system.


	5. luna

women are the moon,

forced to hide pieces of themselves

away in the shadows.

we parcel ourselves up

into palatable portions

we watch carefully

change the parts that we show

we are situational

shapeshifters

survivors.

but on the rare occasion that we allow ourselves

to be seen as whole

we are stunning.

we dominate the night sky

we shine the way for the people

but men do not like when women are too big and bright

women are to be quiet

and soft

and easy to swallow

so i shine bright

i stay whole

i let them choke

on my strength

but what they don't know

is that even when the moon seems whole

there is a dark side

cold

and never seen to the eye

i keep my rage there

freezing and dark

one day, i may discover how to show them that, too

and when i do

they will finally understand.


	6. bad spell

i think my mind is slipping away

words escape me these days  
i stutter and stumble  
the right sentences slither away  
i've forgotten how to write a poem  
so i will say how i feel  
as simply as i can

i am sad  
i am confused  
i am terrified

i don't know how to fix the chaos in my head

i am lonely  
i am angry  
i am tired

everything is messy  
i cannot find a truth  
let me sleep to forget it all  
please let me forget


	7. to lose a home; or: disownment

and it's hard, because this was your life. the pattern of the bricks, the way the hill slopes, the stone bench under the trees. this was your entire reality.

the world barely existed beyond the border of the creek. every tree had a name in your mind, though not ones that could be spoken on the lips. it was home. every square inch was memorized in your heart. every particle of dust was familiar. there's an aching cavity in your chest where the word "comfort" used to be when you looked at that house. it's a half truth. a half-alive feeling that's fading away and it _hurts_.

you want to be happy here. you don't want to feel like you're on a tightrope, so scared of falling, so on the edge. but the broken pieces of ruined memories tear your skin and you can't decide whether to glue them back together or sweep them away forever.

stones shaped like bigotry and betrayal weigh you down. you feel yourself sinking and you try to swim against a riptide that screams, _"you said you'd always love me."_

you said you'd always love me.


	8. edge of eden

we are at the

edge of eden.

we have been cast out and

we will never re-enter.

we will gaze at those

tendrils of green, that

oasis in the desert

we will

mourn the safety of that place, that

holy space that is

free of blame

and so cast out we

wait at the edge of

all we have lost and

all we have ever known

and i am full of

fear.

because i do not know

a life of "impurity" and

i do not know

what my purpose is

without my immortal soul being

held at sword's length

but you.

you take my hand

yours so small

but rough from a life of

"earning it"

your eyes are green like the sea

i once tried to lose myself in completely

and they hold so much fire

as you weep

and you say,

"come with me.

we will build something better."

you tell me not to look back but

i do.

we all look back.

even if we shiver in fear.

and though i don't believe you

i want to

and so we head

into that harsh, unknown desert

hand in hand

tears and more tears

we leave the edge of eden.

we're at the edge of something else.

something harder.

but something better.


	9. gray walls

No matter where I go, I'm in a room.

It follows me. I suppose it's comfortable. It's familiar. Quiet. Sounds from outside the window I keep cracked waft in. The window grows small every time I try to crawl out. So I've stopped trying.

It's gray. The walls, I mean. So perfectly gray. Not cool or warm-toned. Never changing with the light. Just gray. Calm, contemplative gray. The same gray. Every day. My entire life.

I used to pace. I don't anymore.

No one else can come in the room. They can speak through the window. I can speak back. But I'm in, and they're out. I'm in. Always.

I always wonder if one day, the walls will fall down. I stopped trying to crawl out, but I still hope the room will crumble. Maybe. One day. I'll walk free. And I'll feel just like everyone else, everyone who's out There.

They don't even know I'm in here. I've never tried to explain it. I know they don't see these gray walls around me. They don't see that I'm straining out the window just to hear their laughter. To smell the honeysuckle at the bottom of the hill.

No matter where I go, I'm in a room.

It follows me.


	10. whiskey words

they drink whiskey.

they like the way it burns. the complex taste, the three-act play that courses through their mouth and settles on their tongue to fizzle out in curtain call and await applause. in their mind, they do applaud it. there's nothing quite like it.

they look like they'd drink whiskey. worn leather, tired eyes, a gritty rock song on the car radio. a red mustang with peeling topcoat. battered hands stained with ink.

but she drinks wine.

and coconut rum. and more ridiculous things, like blue raspberry vodka. she's all rounded and soft, not like their hard edges. her cheeks are full and rosy, and spattered with freckles. her eyes are full of laughter and light.

they like that a lot.

their tired eyes hold a bit of hope for once, as she reaches across the table to touch their hand. such soft skin. such a gentle touch.

they smile a nervous smile, and suddenly they seem a little younger, a few sharp edges worn away.

they chuckle. and they drink peach wine.


	11. moondust

i think there is

a moon shard

buried deep within me.

my soul has grown

around it, and

aches because

it carries it.

it radiates that loneliness,

that silence

through my core.

a reflection.

a dead planet.

no atmosphere.

no oxygen.

just a pinprick in my chest

that reminds me

i will always be

a shadow.


	12. mourning light through a kitchen window

once again i am

crying in the kitchen.

huddled underneath the

stove i have not cleaned,

feet scraping against the

dirt covering the

floor i have not swept;

why does it always have to feel like

everything is crashing down?

i think i might like a surgery

to remove the broken glass

inside my heart,

but i wouldn't be able

to afford it anyway

i feel so alone.

but i am not alone.

you are here.

you are holding my hand.

you are saying that it will be okay.

i wish i believed it.

i wish it felt like something.

but sometimes all you can do

for a grieving heart

is pick its holder off the kitchen floor

and guide them to bed.

gently remove their stiff clothes

and bring them their contact case.

ask them very softly to drink some water.

hold them very tightly, even if they stain your shirt with tears.

and in the morning,

when the pain has begun to ebb,

i see the soft, pale light that fades into the kitchen,

tinted green from the leaves of the trees

and somehow

in that holy hour

even a dirty kitchen can look like hope.

and i wonder

if that's what people stay alive for.

a thousand tiny moments of softness.

morning light,

your kiss on my hand,

the mourning dove's call when i don't expect it.

my bleary eyes turn to see you

sound asleep in our bed,

your arm curled around

my favorite pillow.

i kiss your forehead.

you hum happily.

though my eyes are red,

i smile.


End file.
